Monthly Archives: January 2014

I never had an ambition to be a writer. I had no experience with it, never studied it, or even thought about it. For three decades I practiced psychotherapy, was deeply absorbed with this practice, and felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Then a colleague and close friend showed me the writing he was engaged in (all fiction), requesting my comments and possible corrections. He was impressed by the help I was able to render him, and suggested that I too try my hand at writing. My unforgettable reply was: “I don’t have anything to write about.” I was so wrong. We all have something to write about, unless we are completely dead to our inner selves, or to our emotions, or have lost all ability to remember anything. Dancing in the Dark, my debut novel, sprang from the experiences, memories, and comprehensions of thirty years of work with people who came to me for help. A lifetime of living also proved useful. Yet it was not autobiographical except in the sense that everything is, that every word emanated from my brain.

I am a relationship therapist having much experience with groups and couples. Even my work with individuals often revolves around problems with relationships. Hence Dancing in the Dark is a novel about relationships. My effort has been to clarify the fault lines that I have observed, that interfere with, disturb, and sometimes derange the love that couples have for one another. However this is not a textbook, or a self-help work; it’s above all a story of individuals and their interrelated lives. I believe that a writer of fiction must be a story-teller above all else; the characters must be real and consistent; the reader must want to know them, understand them, and care about their destinies.

So following my friend’s advice I took up pen (figuratively) and began to write. The experience was frustrating, disillusioning, and utterly illuminating. It was the beginning of a relationship I had with myself. In time I became familiar with two hitherto unrecognized sides of myself. It was a meeting, or rather a clash, which I believe many writers experience. On the once side there was grandiosity; the belief that somehow, without even a jot of experience, I could forge a first rate novel that could capture the imagination of literary agents, editors, publishers, and the reading public. On the other side were the demons, those pesky little naysaying devils that insisted it couldn’t be done. I should stop, they said. How dare you even think yourself capable of such an endeavor? What experience do you have, what knowledge, what skills? Why you didn’t even major in English Lit in college, and have never taken even one single, solitary creative writing course! Stick to what you know, the profession you have chosen to devote yourself to. These were the combatants, and they waged war for many years. Ultimately both sides lost. I must admit though, that initially my mental demons were much closer to reality. I made a good effort; I actually completed a novel about a man who travels through time to find, and fall in love with, none other than Jane Austen. In my less than humble opinion it was quite a feat of imagination, but it was also sophomoric, as you might expect from someone so inexperienced and so naive. Looking back at it now I realize that its structure eliminated the potential for mystery and suspense, qualities that were essential in a story of this kind. Some day I’ll go back to it.

It took a while for me to perceive that writing fiction was a craft, and like any highly skilled craft, it had to be learned. I cut my teeth on Dancing in the Dark, which was begun seven years ago. I wrote it in a year and no one wanted it. Fellow writers tore it to shreds, and my demons rejoiced. Oh how happy they were! “We told you so,” they said. On my behalf I would like to say that I was not defeated. Here is a lesson that I have for all wannabe writers: persist. Over the years Dancing in the Dark evolved. Chapter one was rewritten seven or eight times. Who’s counting? Months before it finally went to print I was still making changes. Throughout the process new thoughts and ideas came to me. There were Eureka moments when I found a way to fit things together, to make elements of the story more plausible, or more consistent, or more suspenseful. My technique improved. I learned to set scenes, to describe locations, to place the reader in a specific time and place. Most important of all, I learned to linger with a scene, to exploit it for all its potential, its inherent possibilities rather than rush ahead as if a deadline to finish was importuning me to complete my work. A protagonist is about to have sex with a woman he has longed for. He has finally summoned the courage to take what is clearly available to him. What is he feeling? He has hesitated for what seemed like an eternity. Why is he hesitating now? As a fiction writer I realized it was important to spend time with this man, to detail his interior monologue, to prolong the suspense of the moment, and to open a part of his soul for the reader to discern. For me a sex scene is about character. Its purpose is not prurient, but rather to open a window, to throw a revealing light on the psychology of the engaged individuals. There were times when I would wake up with a new idea. Was I dreaming of the novel in my sleep? In fact I lived in the novel, lived with my characters, developed real feelings for them. I felt a sadness when I finished, having to say goodbye to them, just like Dr. Harry Salinger felt when he imagined having to say goodbye to his patient, Jennifer Slater, a woman he was half in love with.

My demons also persisted, although their authority was much diminished over time. They showed up each day when I sat down to write. Their appearance was manifested by that twinge of anxiety, which, if it could speak, would have said: “this time you will fail”; “this time it will all fall apart, you impostor.” From this experience, from having to perpetually struggle with those dark, stubborn voices, I can now fully comprehend the meaning of writer’s block. As a therapist there’s a great advantage to having experienced and endured the same problems that patients are encountering. It is the various fears of failure, of learning that one is not so good after all, or even the unfamiliarity of success that thwarts the writer in her efforts to progress; it may also be the ghosts of childhood, the childhood models that have been identified with, their voices, their memories that may interfere and, at its worse, bring the entire enterprise to an abrupt halt. I have worked with writers who have not written a word in years. I can still hear the words of one: “I’d rather believe that I’m a brilliant but tragically flawed playwright, than discover that I’m not very talented at all.” So she stopped writing. We’ll never know just how much she could have accomplished-or not.

In a way I grew with the novel. As I learned to appreciate the immense undertaking of writing a novel, of how much I needed to learn about writing, as my initial grandiosity was swept away by the blows of invincible reality, Dancing in the Dark became more nuanced, more complex. I developed a stronger conviction of my strengths and weaknesses, how to play to the former, and improve on the latter. I am a romantic person, so I wrote a romantic novel. I believe in the necessity of love, that happiness is about loving and being loved, that without it we can never be whole, so Dancing in the Dark is quintessentially about the search for love, the difficulties that must be confronted along that road, and how often we get in our own way. I love irony, so I wrote a novel that is replete with ironic humor. I frequently laughed at my own creations! One character, Izzy, was created almost entirely to add a humorous note, to tone down, just a bit, the novel’s overall seriousness.

So if you’re writing, whether it is fiction or non-fiction, I have one major piece of advice to give you. Look for other eyes that will provide you with a perspective that all writers need. Then listen to them. Unless you’re the second coming of Will Shakespeare, there is always room for improvement. Jane Austen once referred to her novels as her “children”. In fact we are all narcissistically connected to our literary creations, which may cause us to feel hurt when the critics descend. Put those feelings aside and examine the advice you receive. I had some awful experiences in writers workshops, but in the end profited greatly from them. I even hired a writer to deconstruct my work. She took no prisoners, but I’m grateful to her for that.